The Sixth Sense: How Does It Remember Like?

So it’s tonight that I a half empty pack stacked neatly on top of a fresh, unopened one, and of my room. Beethoven plays from my Macbook. The room floor and table are piled high with books, old documents: relics of my past. Pockets of time within my reach, to be packed into new boxes for the future.

is strong, and brash, like my dad. My friends say smooth, but it will always be harsh to me. the brand that runs deep into my veins and heart. I grew up shortens his time.

I represents what I am reduced to back here in represents a lifestyle I hanker after: one where I have the space and freedom to do what my soul desires, one that inspires me to create. For desire and creation is what keeps my soul alive, and it is dying in the stifling heat and restrictions and high rise buildings here. People throng the , and are being erected to hold the other millions that will soon influx our nation.

I and the standing fan has been stationed strategically into the forgiving air. Even with the locked , I constantly look behind. The rain can wash it away, like can be thrown into a public bin later.

I wonder if this is a sign of a new lifestyle. As they say, when something happens once, there will always be a next time.

We are shaped by the ghosts of our past, lovingly hidden in the aches of the heart and hollows in our bones. Past, present, and future, all coexist in the non-linearity of Time.